So, I think, this is my sea. My sea. That little white point over there that looks like a boat, it’s mine. The fish that swim in it are mine until they swim out of my waters. They say the bottom of the sea is a single white skeleton or something similar. That is mine, too. Because the big plane of the big multinational company has just flown over the border that divides our two friendly countries. A few seats in front of me a small screen has just dropped down from the ceiling. There’s a map of our flight. The airplane flew straight for twenty minutes and then turned left. The San Niccolò airport was so boring. Now we are heading towards Albania. We’re flying to Tirana and the Nënë Tereza airport. I already feel at home. I’m above my sea. I can even die here, I tell myself. Lately I’ve been terrified of dying far from my homeland. I don’t know why. I’m not twenty-two years old yet. I’m still young, aren’t I? But terrified. Because I’m far from home. Because I’m getting close to home. Because I’m not like many of my colleagues who feel they are part of the world and the world is their home, etc., etc. No, no, I have a home, my home is my country. A palace still being built in the heart of the capital. One of the innumerable buildings that sprung up together with the new system that hereabouts they call democracy. A small lift. Two bedrooms, a kitchen. A large living room and two bathrooms.
Dear companions of the ark. As you’ll have guessed, I’m writing to you from Albania. Oh – you really should see it. Tirana is so beautiful. Our city is full of light and red and black flags. Even I had never seen it so patriotic before, I swear. People smile more often now, this I’ve seen with my own eyes. At dusk, when the darkness falls to protect us, I understand that nothing can hurt us any more. I’d almost forgotten it, this capital of ours. Strange to think how little by little it had faded from my mind. So one day I lost a café, then a park named for some hero or other, until in the end there was nothing left, except for the idea of having once lived in a city called Tirana. A place with buildings like huge skeletons that had sprung up all at once to dry their bones at the end of the war. There – the Ministry. Built under Fascism, it still has its Roman façades that look as though they watch you with greater and greater disapproval every day, with their big eyes staring into emptiness. A little further on, the Palace of Culture, as the Communists called it, and the statue of Skënderbej. The National Museum. And then along Durrës street, where there used to the statue of our dictator. They’ve torn it down. People were running around frightened, pushing and shouting. It was a very tall, heavy statue. It took quite some time to throw it down. I’ve seen the footage. The square was full of people, the police opened fire. These are images that have been seen all over the world. The same everywhere. There’s the National Bank. The main post office. The money-changers, who are the real indicators of how our currency is rising or falling. The “Dëshmoret and Kombit” boulevard, piazza “Nënë Teresa”, the Univesity, the “Qemal Stafa” stadium. The hills surrounding our artificial lake.
This is our capital, friends. The impression it gives you is one of a city that has wasted a lot of time on silly things and now has to hurry to make up for the time lost.
The cafés are named for famous foreigners. The girls wear infinite quantities of make-up. And it’s all so confused, all so Albanese, that you can’t help but love it. “Tiranë kurvë do të të thërras, por prapë do të të dua…”, as someone said in a famous film. That may be the way it is, it hardly matters. A friend tells me we are tied to our Tirana by a special bond of so much -- love, on the one hand, and on the other by a feeling vaguely bordering on hatred. And that each of them comes to the fore in turns. This is our new, fragile democracy. And our dust, rising in the streets and suffocating us slowly. These are our streets, invaded and liberated tens of times. Enough with the past. The past is past. Now let’s look only ahead. The streets are crowded. But no one is in a hurry. In the evening I go out and walk towards the part of town that here they call the Block or New Tirana. The Block because in times gone by the block of the leaders of my country lived here. The great dictator used to live here, too. But enough with the past. Now there is the presidency. The building hasn’t got a name, it’s simply called the “of the presidency”. And it’s surrounded by hundreds of coffee-shops, fast-food restaurants, pizza places and bridges. In some of the coffee-shops old-age pensioners can have a coffee for twenty leks and read the papers, too. It’s hard to imagine, but early in the evening the coffee-shops are always full. Mainly with young people. I know I prefer the ones that have hung out our flag. The two-headed eagle is never at rest. It invites us to protect our borders. “That’s where they came from,” it tells me looking both ways, “and that’s where they’ll come from again.” “No, no,” I try to calm it, “It’s over and done with. It’s all over. Today our government is strong and we are at peace with our neighbours, who are working for our good. Don’t be afraid. We are safe, my love, at long last we are safe. Our illustrious enemies are now our good friends, and have only our well-being at heart. So be quiet, I beg you.”
I think we are the most frequently invaded country. From what I know, most of the world’s population has passed through these parts: Macedonians, Romans, then the ones called barbarians because we never understood who they really were, Germans, Catalans, Venetians, Ottomans, Greeks, Austro-Hungarians, Serbs, Austrians, Macedonians, Yugoslavians, Fascists, Nazis and Serbs another time. But enough with the past. Enough.
It’s a beautiful day in early September. I was talking about the coffee-shops, wasn’t I? Still, they are second-class coffee-shops, for students. And they’ve aged a lot in this second term. We’ve all aged. But Tirana is younger and more beautiful than ever. Because she has drawn on our youth. Because Tirana can do nothing but protect us in her magic veil. Be careful of the sons of Tirana. Be careful of the daughters of Tirana. They are different, they will never, never again be taken unawares. Because they have seen a city that you cannot even imagine, and that I can never fully describe.